


Philippa Isn't Dead

by tincanspaceship



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Horror, Inspired by Alice Isn't Dead, NaNoWriMo, abandoned work, audio diary, decorative glass frogs as emotional support, what's an isik?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincanspaceship/pseuds/tincanspaceship
Summary: A search through a galaxy defined as much by distance as by size for a presumed-dead wife.Updates on Saturdays.





	1. Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily inspired by the amazing horror podcast [ Alice Isn't Dead ](http://www.nightvalepresents.com/aliceisntdead), and by heavily inspired I mean I'm referencing the episode transcripts constantly. Go listen to it! It's fantastic.

**Chapter One: Syrup**

Oh, Pippa. 

I miss you. And I want to — oh, I don’t know.

Sorry. I want you to know that I wanted to believe you were dead. Some masochistic part of me wants to feel that guilt. Like my love to you was what killed you. That I am unwanted and unloved. 

But you aren’t dead. 

This story — no. This adventure, this journey, it’s got start points. It’s a simple timeline. You know where it started and where it ended, so I’m starting with something you don’t know about. 

I’m starting with the mirror man. 

—-

When this patchwork of a shuttle needs to charge, it gets left at rest stops that orbit suns. You get out, go eat every permutation of fast food from every culture, buy some clothes or a hairbrush or socks. Some of them are shadier than others, mostly the ones with the bars. 

I stopped at one of the seedier ones, and was trying to mind my own business, staring deep into the foam on my Andorian beer. 

But there was this man. He wasn’t quite human, but he wasn’t alien, either. Just...off. 

He was eating something. Meat, maybe, dripping with something viscous. Honey, or syrup. And he plucked the material out of a bowl, rolling it into balls the size of an eye and placing them in his mouth. I don’t think he chewed. I could see the lumps sliding down his throat. 

He saw me staring and he started staring back. His pupils were constricted to a point sharper than I’ve ever seen, like the tip of a pen. Impossibly tiny. And his irises were a silver colour, not grey but silver, like metal. Like the hull of a ship. Like a mirror. 

He had this long, black coat, shiny like leather, with the collar up to hide his face. His nails, too, were the same black, but I couldn’t tell if it was nail polish or just...gross. They were ragged, not like he bit them, but like he dragged them down the side of a cliff.

There was an emblem on his jacket, same place a Starfleet badge goes. A sword, through Earth, with a shield in the background, I think. 

He was shoving those disgusting orbs of meat down his throat and kept staring. I could see that he was just placing them straight in his esophagus, not letting the meat even touch his tongue. 

It felt fake and real at the same time. Like it didn’t happen but almost did. Like how déjà vu feels. But I can’t forget it. Dreams fade, you know that, I heard you complain about forgetting nearly every morning. It won’t fade. It’s permanent. 

###

There’s a certain pleasure to be had in this shuttle. It’s junk, really, but...there’s an element of _ control _that doesn’t happen aboard a starship. Even if you’re a pilot. Keyla talks about the way she knew exactly what the Shenzhou needed, but the Shenzhou was huge. She couldn’t have felt it the same way I feel this, the hum and the shudder and the buzzing…

It’s an extension of me. 

I see a comm relay up ahead, but I think it’s been dismantled for parts. It’s leaking something in drops into space, something translucent blue. 

It’s unsettling, watching the free strands of wire float. I know something happened here but I don’t know why. Was it just vandalism, to cause chaos? Did someone need the parts?

I never want to see a damaged comm relay again. 

I try not to linger on the past. I distract myself by wondering where the product I’m moving is going. 

Why would anyone need sixteen crates of glass decorative frogs, anyway? They’re individually packaged in these little clear plastic bags, full of air so they don’t shatter.

I took one and put it on the dash. They’re red with black spots and black toes. I’m naming them after you. Philippa Two. 

You’d be proud of me, Philippa. I got a book on trauma. I read it over a week of morning coffee. It says that writing letters to a deceased loved one can help with grief. 

I mean, you aren’t dead, but this is close enough to letters, right?

Right, Philippa Two?

###

Globs of meat. Right down his gullet. We kept eye contact. There was some sort of energy there, something I couldn't put my finger on. It didn't feel good. Something even more grimy than this place. 

He shoved off from the bar and pushed himself over to my side, his stool squealing against the faux-stone floor. The movement was rough but...but practised. Like he’d done this before, this heavy transfer. He still stared. From closer I could see his eyes were sunken, the kind of dark circles you got under your eyes when you pulled a twenty-four hour shift then an away mission to the power of ten. He smiled, slightly, and his teeth looked like his fingernails, all chipped and jagged and broken. Not right.

“Hello, darling,” he said, and it sounded like his fingernails and teeth, not right. “Enjoying your drink?”

“I’m not your darling,” I said, and his impossibly-sharp pupils constricted further. 

“Want some?” he offered, and he held out his bowl. It was meat, I think, but nothing I’d seen before, the physical characteristics of raw chicken but the shape of tendrils, raw and pungent. Rotting. Doused in honey, I think, or maybe corn syrup, but it spilled out of the bowl, landing in spatters on my table.

“No, thank you,” I said, and I don’t know why I was still thinking he could be reasoned with like a human. 

“You look too nice to be out here, darling,” he said, swirling his fingers in the dressing, those black fingernails shining. “Bad things can happen.”

“Oh?” I said.

“You know. _ Accidents _.” He dripped honey or maybe corn syrup off his fingers, drizzling a loop onto the polished table. 

“What accidents?” I said, but the dread in my stomach was building. Whatever he was planning, it wasn’t good.

“There’s a lot of people like you who just...vanish,” he said, grinning, dragging his fingers through the mess he’d made.

I didn’t know what to answer. I slid my little zapper into my hand under my sleeve.

“Watch this,” he said, finally, letting his bowl revolve a few times before settling on the table.

He slid up to someone at the bar with that terrible squeal of his stool. A man, short black hair and rumpled shirt, baseball cap, probably forty but tired, ship grease on his trousers.

“Matt,” the mirror man said, pulling a marble out of his pocket. But it wasn’t a marble, it was rough purple orb, glowing. A chunk of crystal, maybe.

Matt looked...surprised, a forkful of spaghetti hovering between his mouth and his bowl. “Do I know you?”

The mirror man took his arm and pulled him out.

No one noticed. Or maybe they did notice, they just didn’t care. Maybe they did notice but they were too scared to say anything. Maybe this happens a lot.

###

I despise myself for what I let happen to you.

###

He took the man out to the stark white of the corridor down to the bathroom. 

And he --

###

It’s desolate in these parts. Clouds of blue and purple and green, that shade of purple-blue you love so much. Even a dash of Philippa Two’s shade of red. Empty, though. 

I wish I had you with me. Philippa Two doesn’t have your smile. 

We talk about big, massive pretty things too much, if you ask me. The night sky, the light patterns of cities, fireworks, fields and fields of flowers. What about the small, pretty things? Maybe I’m just a quantum physicist, but I much prefer the smaller things. I will take your fingernails over an _ aurora borealis _any day. 

I could always tell how you were feeling by your fingernails. Long, when you were running out of time to care for yourself. Cut too close to your nail bed when you had to keep yourself from biting them. A perfect oval when you felt good. A subtle language.

We don’t talk enough about subtle languages, either. 

Does that even make sense? 

I’m moving sixteen crates of ornamental frogs from one planet to another, talking about my wife’s fingernails into a headset and recording it for sentimentality. 

I have never felt more Human in my life.

###

The mirror man was standing in the middle of the stark white hallway. 

Matt was there too. He looked...he looked paralyzed, but he looked terrified. Right next to the mirror man. There were sticky fingerprints on his sleeve. Honey or corn syrup.

The lights were those fluorescents that give you headaches. Neon white. One was flickering.

It’s one of those places where time isn’t real. 

The mirror man stared at me, and his pinprick pupils narrowed still in the light, far beyond what ciliary muscles should be able to do. Like the code of his eyes wasn’t finished.

And he took one of those purple marbles and shoved it down Matt’s throat, the way he’d been eating earlier. Matt choked, but I saw it fall through his throat, glowing purple. The mirror man held Matt by the collar, watching him sputter, and then.

And then Matt tried to scream before he turned to dust. Just dust. He was enveloped by the purple glow of the marble and I --

###

The sand on Langkawi was so fine and so soft. 

###

I couldn’t do anything. I had to watch. And when it was over and this pile of gray dust lay on the stark white tiles of this bathroom corridor, the mirror man stuck his finger in the heap, mixing syrup and ashes, and dragged his finger down the middle of my forehead.

Like a baptism.

And I ran out of there. Faster than I think I’ve ever run before. I ran into my shuttle and I took off, shaking.

I washed the dust and honey, or maybe corn syrup, off my forehead, and I kept rubbing at it until my skin turned red, but I still felt it.

I still feel it.

###

I’m floating through one of those indigo clouds. It’s swirling against my windshield, patterns of dust particles. It looks like Matt’s ashes.

The mirror man is everywhere. He’s at every stop, even the ones without any other shuttles parked, lurking under the fluorescent stark whites of bathroom lights or leaning against the bar, staring at me.

Without fail. 

He still has those silver eyes and tiny pupils, those black fingernails and ragged teeth, the same jacket with the same sword and the same Earth.

How does he know where I am?

And here I am, carrying my sixteen crates of decorative glass frogs halfway across the quadrant just to get an equally absurd shipment after that, and then after that.

I miss you, Philippa. I want to find you but...but I don’t know where to start.

You said, once, that if you don’t know where to start you pick a direction and start walking. Even if it’s completely wrong. It’s better to do something than not.

Always pick action, when given the choice. 

I had the choice. 

I choose action.

\---

_What’s an isik? _

_An isik is not quite whatever it is. It is slightly wrong in such a way it makes you question whether it was wrong, anyway, or if your eyes lied. It has sharp teeth, if it has teeth, and they are pointing the wrong way. It has silver eyes, if it has eyes, and it always looks in the wrong direction. It has sharp talons, if it has talons, and they curve upwards. That is an isik._  



	2. Pippa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go listen to  Alice Isn't Dead. It's so good.

**Chapter Two: Pippa**

Oh, Philippa. I tried to make myself believe you were dead. I really did. I saw it. I saw that knife go through your chest. And I know what it’s like to be in denial of death. 

But I couldn’t.

And then I found your beep. Morse code on waves far too inefficient to be used for transmission anymore. 

Just the letters A-L-I-C-E. 

And sure, Alice is a name, and it could be any number of things, but you’d selected a bandwidth with 1207.3 right there, that sequence specifically. May 11, 2256. 

And now I’m looking for you as a wanted criminal. You’d think they would have found me already, but the surveillance out here is weak and I wear anti-facial recognition jewelry. Well, it’s not jewelry, it’s polished chrome that lies over my face in circles. Looks stylish. Half the people I’ve met have something similar. 

I know I'm hard to find. Why are you, Pippa?

###

I stopped on a desert planet. The shuttle's small enough to drift through streets, like a long hovercar. 

It's a bit boring, honestly. After those purple and green and blue clouds, the dusty landscape is just dust. Endless. A few rocks. Two brilliant red suns. It looks almost exactly like the deep deserts of Vulcan.

There's sand in my mouth. I haven't left the shuttle. 

Dust always finds a way. 

I made it to a city. Village. Looks like it could be a hamlet, it's that small. The info sign says it's called "Stella." 

What a nice name, huh, Philippa Two?

It's got a tiny restaurant, peeling green paint, chrome finishes. Tellarite cuisine. A little mechanic shop, some young engineer working on the engine of a shuttle. A few houses. An elderly Bajoran woman sitting on a park bench, talking to a kid, an Andorian. The Royal Hotel, says the sign, blue chipped paint and gold letters. A young adult leaning on a telephone pole, looking at me. Wearing big headphones. 

This is like the bathroom hallway, but in a good way. Like it formed out of the ground here when the universe was created and hasn't changed. 

###

I wanted to talk about you, you know. But prison therapists only want to find out if you're going to mutiny again. They ask you if you're feeling rebellious, if you regret what you did. 

I regret everything I did, Philippa. I regret all of it. 

So I found solace elsewhere. I took my tablet and I logged onto support forums. I posted in dozens, talking about you. About my dead wife. How I still felt like you were alive but I needed to convince myself you were dead. How much I loved you and how much I missed you. How I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. How you died, minus the details. A murder. 

And I found solace, hiding under my blankets, washed in blue light. I found people who had dead wives, dead husbands, dead partners. 

I almost accepted it. That I would never see you again. I'd never get to hold you again. I'd never get to apologize for what I'd done. 

But then I turned on the radio, and I turned to the date this all started, and I heard it. I had just been bored, Philippa, I had just been bored. 

A-L-I-C-E. 

Blinking out in morse code. I didn’t believe it, at first. Tried to convince myself it was a coincidence. That the wavelength of 1207.3 was random. But I couldn’t. I tuned to that frequency until I heard the ghost of the pattern play and keep playing. Infinite and unending. Dot-dash, dot-dash-dot-dot, dot-dot, dash-dot-dash-dot, dot. Alice. 

You taught me morse code. Did you know, Philippa? 

Did she know, Philippa Two?

I really do miss your conversation. You did that little  _ hmm _ sound, when something was interesting. 

Philippa Two just stares at me.

###

  
  


I’ve been coasting across this desert for the last few hours. In a straight line. But there’s Stella, again. I don’t know how. The nav says I’ve been going perfectly straight, right on to the capital of this region. And yet here it is again.

But it’s soaked in dust. There were gusts, earlier, sure, but this...I think this isn’t sand. It’s dark, indigo. It’s in drifts on the road, inside every crevice of the buildings, piled in uneasy stacks on ledges, on balconies. Like snow. Everywhere. I…

I think it’s ashes.

The people are still doing what they were before. The mechanic is still fiddling with the engine, but dust is washing over them, filling the panel of the shuttle. The Bajoran is still talking animatedly with the young boy, but the dust has collected in their hair and their clothes, releasing these plumes of dark particles when they move. The young adult is still leaning against a telephone pole, still tapping their finger to their music. The lettering on the Royal Hotel is still peeling.

I’m going to get out of this town. And then I’m going to run a nav diagnostic.

###

Radio is archaic, really, especially now that we can just channel any music we want, any news we want, through anything. The physical boxes are analog relics. But after I heard that A-L-I-C-E? I tuned in constantly. The prison guards thought I was insane, listening to the same beeps, day in, day out. It never changed.

I tried every radio frequency with 12073 somewhere. The first ten digits containing those numbers, in every measurement, everywhere. That’s where I found more, coded, of course.

ALICE. I’M STILL HERE. LOVE PIPSQUEAK.

I left. You’d be disappointed, I think. It was a brilliant plan, but you wouldn’t have approved of the deception.

I stopped at your mother’s house. That was dangerous, an unnecessary risk, but she told me it was all right. She listened to me talk about the radio waves, about your message. She gave me a box of your things and told me to stay safe. Wished me well.

I looked at your things, I’m sorry. I wear your sweatshirt constantly. It’s so soft…

There’s clues in there, too, cryptic messages and more, but I just want to think about your sweater.

###

The desert is fading to rock. Just as inhospitable, but in a different way. Jagged spires and impossible figures. Sharp. The precursor to sand.

###

Philippa, I’m in Stella again.

I ran the nav diagnostic, it’s right! I stopped at another town, slept the night. I didn’t see the mirror man, miraculously. I’ve been going in a straight line. Everything else is passing like it should, landmark after landmark. But Stella just isn’t. I asked about it and the locals stared at me.

But now, Stella is crumbling. It is being enveloped in a purple glow just like those marbles from the mirror man. 

The engineer is turning to dust, their hands still working on the disintegrating engine. Covered in ash.

The Bajoran woman’s fingers are flaking to the bone, but she’s talking like nothing’s happening, and the little boy...the little boy. He’s disappearing from the feet up.

The young adult is still leaning against the pole, but they’re flaking too. They’re looking at me with glowing purple eyes. 

How, Philippa? How is this happening?

I have to get out of here.

###

You never could keep notebooks. You had the worst handwriting I’d ever seen, Philippa. Even Philippa Two had better handwriting than you. So everything was on a single PADD, slid into the middle of a book. So many things I didn’t understand. “The Variable,” you wrote. “The Project,” capital P. “Archimedes Transport.” That one especially. Like your first ship.

I investigated. They had an opening. And I took it. 

They had me take a class to learn how to pilot a shuttle. I pretended I didn’t know how to. I know Starfleet pilots are distinctive. We’re all too stiff, like sheet reading without a groove. Technically perfect but uncomfortable.

This lets me see tiny windows of the galaxy. Pockets. You could be anywhere, really, but I like to think you’ll send me another message. Or a clue. Maybe I’ll find a clue.

You could be dead, I suppose. These transmissions could just be a coincidence. But I don’t think you are, Pippa. I think I’d feel it.

###

Stella.

The dust is gone, the people are back. Engineer, hunched over the engine.

Are they bleeding?

They are. There’s a cut, no. Not a cut. An image, on their cheek. It’s the sword and the Earth and the shield. 

They’re bleeding purple.

All of them. They all look like this, all with the sigil on their cheek, and I’m confident they’re all bleeding, everyone in this town. Even the little boy, his red shirt splattered with purple.

The Bajoran woman is gone.

No. No, she isn’t. She’s standing behind me. In the shuttle. 

Her cheek is carved too, but it looks scarred. Like an old wound.

Philippa? Is this you? Do you know what’s going on, Pippa?

The woman is reaching for me, Philippa.

She…

She touched my forehead and then disappeared.

She’s at the bench now. She’s talking to the young boy.

I’m leaving. Okay. 

I think I can leave now.

###

I didn’t realize how much I depended on your touch until it was gone.

Even when I’d just come aboard. All you did was touch my shoulder, once in a while. An affirmation. But it felt warm and welcoming and…

I don’t know how to describe it. I always wished you’d leave your hand there, just linger for a second. 

Then I wanted you to drag your hand up my neck and twine it in my hair. I didn’t know what to make of that, at first. I had a lot of restless nights, trying to decode it. Trying to figure out what I was feeling. 

We like to pretend like the prejudices of the past are gone, we really do. Like we’ve eliminated a ‘normal’. But it isn’t gone, not yet. 

I didn’t consider I was in love with you for...for too long. I had just assumed it wasn’t that. Didn’t even cross my mind, that I could be queer. I hadn’t felt it before. 

And then you dragged your hand up my neck and placed it flat against my scalp, holding me to your stomach and trying to calm me. I could feel each layer of my skin, my bone, my brain, all of it, your hand keeping me safe and tethered.

I stopped crying, and you rocked, gently, soothing me. I wrapped my arms around your legs, feeling your breathing, drifting.

It felt better than anything I’d experienced before. 

I wanted more, more than that. And I got it.

Sparring, muscles and mats and workout gear. Cuddling, first when I was sick, and we liked it so we never stopped. Kisses and holding hands and sex. I craved contact.

And now you’re gone and it starts to feel like Vulcan again. I am pretending to be okay with this physical isolation. 

But I’m not. 

I’m going to find you. I’m going to find you and I’m going to wrap my fingers around yours and we’ll feel the cool surface of our rings and it will be okay. 

It will be okay. 

—-

_ What’s an isik? _

_ An isik is a search, an adventure. A long trip. Clues and answers, starts and beginnings. Something that hasn’t started but also hasn’t ended. A Klein bottle of journeys. That is an isik.  _


	3. Papers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for a description of physical assault.

**Chapter Three: Papers**

I just passed that planet where we went on vacation, where everyone was tall and all the counters came up to your chin. We got a bed in a hotel and you said we could probably both fit vertically, if we wanted to. 

[ _ Laughs, the quiet chuckling kind. _ ]

We didn’t, but you were right, we could have. 

[ _ thud. _ ]

What? 

What was that? I think...I think something moved in the back? How?

Philippa Two?

There can’t be anything back there. I’m going to pull over and look. Okay. 

###

I brought my zapper with me, just in case. Opened up the connecting door. Just a bunch of cardboard boxes, labelled with their contents. Circuit boards, I think. Lots of shadows, even with the lights. I looked through everything, piled up all the boxes against the back wall so no one could hide from me. There wasn’t anything. Maybe one of the boxes tipped over or I hit something. I don’t know.

###

I’m keeping moving. I have the door from the hold to the pilot seat locked. 

It’s pretty again, out here. I’m flying through a trinary star system, and all the planets are green, like moss. Like if you landed on them you’d just _sink_ into moss. And there are so many planets, too. I count twenty-two. 

Maybe I can bring you here someday, Pippa. I think you’d like it. 

The noise is back. It’s wrong, it’s just a wrong sound. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, but worse, like…like teeth against a chalkboard. It’s definitely not a noise boxes of circuit boards could make. It’s not loud but it’s there, and it’s coming from the back. There’s something moving back there. 

I’m stopping again, and I’m going to bring my zapper. 

###

There wasn’t nothing, this time. There wasn’t a person or anything, I could see that immediately. But one of the boxes had something sticky on it, in the shape of a hand. Honey, or corn syrup. 

Philippa, I’m scared. 

No, I’m not scared. I’m terrified. 

I’m always scared, you know that. I mean I wasn’t, when I was with you, but it’s back now. Straight terror in every nerve. I can’t stop it anymore. I lie awake, that panic like an infection, working its way through my body. But now there is something to be afraid of, something logical. The mirror man is in the back of my shuttle, somehow. And I am alone.

###

I stopped on a planet again to get dinner and use the bathroom. The shuttle has a bathroom attached, of course, but it’s tiny and gross. Imagine how small it is to make a restaurant bathroom seem luxurious, Philippa. I got something kind of like dumplings, a rubbery outside filled with bitter green stems.

Anything tastes good after prepackaged meals and scant replicator rations, really.

There was a plaque on the outside of the building. Used to be the house of some world-renowned physicist. I know their name from something, but I can’t remember what. Now their name is carved into a rock on the side of a restaurant. 

I love these small-ish towns. They have all the standard stores, some houses, definitely a restaurant, supermarket. And then one very specific store, something that probably doesn’t exist elsewhere on this continent, a tourist attraction, maybe. This one has a stationary shop, for some reason. Should I stop and buy some paper, write you an actual letter? I’m tempted, honestly. They have a very appealing display in the window.

Philippa Two, what do you think?

The scraping’s back.

Okay. If I stop, he won’t be back there, and then I will be more confused than I already am. I’m going to get out and stop at that stationary store and look for the perfect paper to write you a letter. That’s going to take a long time, I know. So I’ll do it, and when I get back, the noise will be gone, and I will stop at an actual rest stop and I will see him. That’s what I’m going to do. 

###   
  


When I stepped into that store it was bright as day, and when I left it was pitch black. I mean, I did spend almost an hour looking around and chatting with the very nice young woman at the desk -- I talked about you, said I was going to see my wife soon and wanted to give her a pretty letter, and she asked about you and I told her. I bought a lot of paper -- but that night came on sudden, like a lightswitch. Not there one minute and there the next. And by pitch black, I really do mean pitch black. The streetlights illuminate a cone, but that’s all you can see. The stores look like floating windows now, just a little glimpse inside.

The scratching isn’t gone. It’s still there and I’m still terrified. I want to pretend like it could possibly be something else but I know it isn’t. It’s the mirror man.

There’s a rest stop in orbit. I’m going to dock there, where there are people, and I’m going to find him. 

Okay. I’m leaving this planet with my sheets of lemon yellow paper and astronomical envelopes. 

I will be okay.

###

[ _ Breathing, thick and heavy. Like your lungs aren’t big enough for the oxygen you need. _ ]

Oh, Pippa. I --

[ _ Coughs, deep coughs. Like something heavy is weighing at the bottom of your chest and you need to get it out. _ ]

Ah, fuck. Okay. I…

I landed at a rest stop. Figured at least some people would be there. One of the bigger ones. I docked my shuttle, made sure the connecting door was locked. Some people working on their shuttles next to me, a grease-stained couple beside me. I had Philippa Two in my pocket and my zapper in my hand. 

I pulled down the back, opening up the ramp for unloading.

And there he was. Leather jacket, black, tattered pants, boots falling apart at the seams. Black fingernails, and this close I could tell it wasn’t nail polish, his fingers were just…black. Short brown hair. Teeth that weren’t right, jagged and scraped, too many in his mouth. The gold thread of the emblem shined. His eyes were still that silver, pinpricks for pupils. 

“Afternoon, darling,” he said, leaning against the wall. Smiling like a creep. 

Everything was covered in syrup. Soggy cardboard, pools of viscous liquid, handprints on the walls. 

Oh, Pippa, where are your doctor tendencies when I need them? I just want to lie down and have you patch me up. 

The man took a feint step towards me and I jumped. He laughed, an abrasive sound. Grinned. 

He smelled bad. Like metal and meat and sugar. Or just blood and sugar, maybe. I think it’s still lingering. 

“Why are you doing this, Michael?” he said, and I clenched my fists, holding the buzzer backwards so he couldn’t see. 

“I’m doing what I have to do,” I said, in a dead tone. 

“You’re doing,” he said, stepping down the ramp to the back, getting closer, “what you have to do? You don't have to do this, Michael. You could do any number of other things. Aren’t you supposed to be in prison?”

“She needs me,” I said, not knowing if that was quite true or not. “Leave me alone and get the hell out of my shuttle.”

He stepped closer, close enough I could see his tiny pupil constrict and the shimmer of his irises, how sharp and jagged his teeth were. He didn’t have eyelashes, for some reason. 

“There are people here,” I said. “They’ll see you if you kill me.”

I was bluffing on that. I had no idea if he cared about anonymity during his murders. There were a few people, but it was loud, and none of them were looking at me. 

“No one will be able to help you,” he said. “And no one will want to.”

And he took me, pinned me against the outside of the shuttle. He was strong, in a bad way, not like you, Pippa, with your corded muscle and your flexed arms, and it was so pretty to see just how strong you were. That was the polar opposite of this. His teeth were even worse close up, like someone had hammered at all of them, and they looked...I think I could see the exposed nerve, in some of them. His breath smelled like rotting meat. 

He pushed his hand against my neck, not fully cutting my airway but letting me know he could. I knew he could, and I started shaking, the way I do when I start having a panic attack. 

I pulled the zapper out of my pocket and slammed it into his neck, the only really exposed skin, and he didn’t even react, even though I slammed it against him so many times I think the average humanoid would be passed out in cardiac arrest. He pressed harder into my neck, and I felt my breathing turn shallow and quick, like trying to fill a tire with a hole. 

He pulled one of those marbles out of his pocket, tossed it into the air and caught it. 

"Open up," he said, and I clenched my jaw as tight as I could. He frowned, but it didn't look like it should, like his smile had just been flipped, which sounds like a frown but it isn't. "Be a good girl, Michael. Be good for Pippa."

You never told me to be good, Pippa. You told me to gather my strength and fight for what I wanted. You never told me to behave. You would have never told me to be complicit in my own death. 

So I closed my eyes and tried to remember what it was like when you would wrap those strong arms around me and squeeze, lift me off the ground. The perfect kind of strong. 

I fumbled for the zapper, turning it on, feeling the electricity crackle. He laughed, hot, rotting breath over my face, and as he did, I used my hand to hold his jaw open and I shoved the zapper down his throat. That caught him off guard, and he released his grip on my throat as his hand shot to his neck. 

I needed something loud. Really loud, louder than the loitering hum of the shuttles and the clang of the person next to me working on their impulse drive. 

I headbutted him to give me a few seconds, and his nose broke, like dry pasta, a terrible  _ crack!  _ of his bone giving way, and as he flinched I brought my weight down on the fuel canister. 

There are emergency fuel canisters on the outside of shuttles. It's just there in case you get stranded in dark depths with no stars, silvery, thin metal with a non-flammable, mostly inert green condensate on the inside. Non-toxic, of course, just gas. But they're  _ loud _ when they fall. 

It broke off the side and let out a massive  _ clang! _ as it hit the metal floor, echoing like cymbals, and it took over the room. Everyone stopped and looked, finally. 

I cried out, not a word but a guttural sound, something deep and instinctive that said I was in danger. 

Someone from the other side of the room ran for me, a woman in a jumpsuit, sprinting, not fast enough, it felt, as the mirror man put his weight against my throat again, closing off my air. 

The woman tackled him, leaped for him, pulling him off me and to the ground. I just collapsed, gulping in air, lying limp against the side of the shuttle. My brain had gone fuzzy. 

The woman came to my side again, propped my head on her shoulder. 

"My name's Eva," she said, softly. "Breathe, okay? It's going to be okay."

I tried to tell her it wasn't, but I just cried into her hair, this mass of soft curls, as she tried to calm me down. 

I didn't see the mirror man scrabble to his feet, but she did, and she shouted for someone to stop him, and no one did. Footsteps on metal, running. She held a cloth to the bleeding scratches on my arm from his fingernails, these jagged scrapes. They still stung, but it did help. 

He was sort of right, I suppose. Only one person did help me. 

A security officer walked up to us eventually. Black pants and black shoes, perfectly creased. Didn't seem to be rushed. I didn't look up. My head was thumping, even with my eyes closed. Eva did the talking, mostly.

"What happened here?" he said, unconcerned. 

"There was just an assault on your premises!" Eva said, the fury in her voice this rage I don't think I could have felt. "And you took your time getting here, didn't you?"

"Look," he said, leaning down. "If that man is talking to you, you're on the wrong side of something bigger than you. Go home, kid. Forget about it and leave him alone."

He walked away, just as slow and lazy as before. Eva shouted something at him, rudely. 

"What's your name, honey?" she said to me, running her hand over my shoulder. 

"Gabrielle," I said. That's my name now. 

"Okay, Gabrielle. I'm a doctor. Do you want me to look at you?" she said. 

I agreed, and I stumbled to my feet and leant on her as we walked to the bathroom. She kept saying gentle things to me, nice things, and I rested against the sink. Tested my eyes to see if I was concussed, which I wasn’t, thankfully. 

“Where do you come from, Gabrielle?” she said, cleaning my neck with one of those cold alcohol wipes. 

“Doctari Gamma,” I said. “Beta quadrant.”

“Huh,” she said, and we sat there in companionable silence for a while.

She took me out to the little restaurant area so I could eat something. Told me I needed energy to heal up, like you say. She suggested I stay here for the night, so I could sleep comfortably. I respectfully declined.

She told me to be safe and helped me shut the back of the shuttle.

And I’m on the road again.

I haven’t heard anything from the back yet. I think he’ll leave me alone for a few days, at least.

There’s a security shuttle tailing me, though. I don’t know if it’s for my sake or the mirror man’s. They’ve tried to mask the signature, but not well.

This is crazy, Pippa. It’s completely crazy. How have they not figured out who I am yet? I’m a wanted mutineer. People don’t escape from Starfleet prisons, it’s considered impossible. I mean, they did try and cover it up to the public -- I’m not worth that level of panic, I suppose -- but every law enforcement officer is supposed to know what I look like.

Maybe a haircut goes further than people think.

\---

_ What’s an isik? _

_ An isik is someone who fights beyond what they can. It’s a second wind that comes past the eleventh hour. It’s a hand outstretched. It’s a lead pipe handed to someone facing an army. It’s a mixture of sheer luck and celestial pity. That’s an isik. _


	4. Seeds

**Chapter Four: Seeds**

Pippa, was it you? Did you do this?

There's grease on my hands, metallic specks from the construction. 

How? How did you do this?

###

I’m in a void again. This is what those spare fuel canisters are for. It’s pitch black in every direction, as dark as the desert planet with the paper shop. Just...nothing. The computer generates random planets nearby to keep you from going insane, but I turned it off. There’s free-floating debris, but I can’t see it. I just hear it as it plinks off the forcefield.

[ _ A soft plink, then smaller, little plinks, like pebbles _ .]

There’s one.

I delivered to a free-floating station today. A factory of some sort. Circular shape, hexagonal windows. Right in the middle of nowhere, really. Orbiting around an old star. Just a few pinpricks of light lingering in the background. No reason to put a factory there. Didn’t make geographical sense. It must be hard to get shipments out there, and my shuttle can’t take much at a time, so I don’t know why I had to take it.

The loading bay was already open, so I docked. There was a young person standing there. Eighteen, maybe. Brown hair in a ponytail, freckles, big smile. Dusty blue jumpsuit with a logo on the chest, in gold. I don’t remember what it was. Every time I looked away, I forgot what it looked like.

Isn’t that weird, Pippa?

###

Usually the driving’s bad out here, but there’s no one. Just a void, like I said. It's weirdly peaceful in its kind of boring. I like it. 

The kid nodded at me, a big smile on their round face. "You're Gabrielle, right?"

"That's me," I said, unlocking the back and letting the ramp sink to the floor. The kid gave me another big smile. 

Kids don't usually like me anymore. I'm scary, I guess. I have tattoos and a bit of a glare, plus I was still recovering from the mirror man's attack. But this one didn't seem to mind. 

They started unloading with me. It was a metal frame of some sort, little segments, a clear window. Looked like a torpedo, maybe. 

"I'm Thea," they said. "It's nice to meet you, Gabrielle." 

"It's nice to meet you too, Thea," I said, helping them unload a long flat plane of metal. 

"I like your tattoos," they said. "What's that one there?" they asked, gesturing with their nose at my forearm. We set down the metal on the track, and I held out my arm so they could look at it. 

"It's a papaya," I explained. "That's my wife's favourite fruit. They're amazing."

"Wow," Thea said. "I want to get a tattoo someday. And I want to eat a papaya."

We kept unloading in a content silence, and that's when I noticed that there wasn't anyone else. It was a big factory, and I thought I'd see at least another worker, taking a break, getting another delivery. Supervising Thea. But it was empty. No lingering debris of the presence of others. 

"We just have to confirm the delivery, Gabrielle. Follow me," Thea said, slipping down a hallway, lit with those fluorescent bulbs that give you headaches. I followed, but I didn't see them. 

###

I'm out of the void. There's a lot of advertising out here. Rest stops, hotels. Planetary tourism. Fresh food, lots of ads for that. I can almost smell it, the giant billboards are so appealing. 

God, I'm hungry now. I guess that's the point. 

It just never ends. Green planets and party moons and...I don't know. Infinite advertisements. I miss the void already. 

The void didn't make me want crackers and Andorian blue jelly, at least.

###

Back to the station. 

Farther in, it was turning from white to grey, still with those terrible, unreal lights. The air didn't feel like station air -- you know, the somewhat stuffy, hot, recycled air. It was cold and real. 

I kept going down the hall. Endless, like the void. I couldn't see Thea. I tried one of the doors that lined the corridor, but it was locked. 

Eventually I got to the end. It felt like an hour's walk, but I don't think it could have been quite so long. A heavy wood door with a name embossed on a gold plate. Every time I looked away I forgot what it said. 

I creaked it open. A main office, desk, holo displays. Some paper files, a map. Picture frame on the desk. Someone with elaborate braided brown hair inspecting a bookshelf, searching for something. Their sleeves were rolled up, and I could see a few tattoos. Blue jumpsuit. The logo was on the back. I forget what it looked like. 

"I'm supposed to sign something?" I said, trying to catch their attention. 

"Oh, right!" they said, turning around and grabbing a tablet off the desk. 

It was Thea. Older, my age, probably. Freckled, still, but less so. Same happy smile, sharper cheekbones. Laugh lines. 

It felt like the hallway again. Real and unreal. I held the pen in my shaking fingers and signed off as Gabrielle.

"Do you mind helping me get everything adjusted properly? I'm still not strong enough to get everything set up proper," Thea said. 

"Sure," I said, digging my fingernails into my palm. 

"Follow me," they said, again. 

I did, Philippa. What else was I supposed to do?

###

Out here, in the dark, I've been thinking about the nights we spent together. Not like...not like that. Well, sometimes. But it started as me, frantic, crying, leaning on your doorframe, asking for help. I don't think I realized how sick I was, Philippa. You took me into your arms, so very cautious, telling me that it would be all right. Said that my dreams weren't real and that you'd protect me if they were. And you tucked me into bed and just..

[ _ A deep, sad sigh. Like you miss something but you don't know what. _ ]

You just held. But you held me, cradled me, told me it was all right. That everything was all right. And it evolved. It evolved to mornings when you were so warm I couldn't fathom getting out of bed. Both of us, sore, draping ourselves over each other. Gentle closeness when one or both of us were hurt. 

I was hurt for a long time. 

I don't know what it was about your touch that healed me. But it did. You took the anxious, burnt out, exhausted wreck of a human Sarek left you and you built me out of the debris. 

I don't know what it was about your touch that calmed my heart and quieted my mind, but I know that I need it again, Philippa. 

###

I knew what would happen. I knew. I watched Thea step out through a back door and I followed them, right on their tail, but I lost them somehow. Big, massive machines. Strangely silent but looming, rows and rows and rows. 

And still no one. The machines worked on the metal, bending and fitting, showers of sparks. 

I followed the construction to Thea. 

Older again. Your mother's age, Philippa. Happy wrinkles. Soft eyes, hints of freckles. Hair in an elaborate twist at the back of their head, some grey, a little white. 

"Hey, Gabrielle," they said, bolting together a plane of metal and a glass dome. 

"Hi, Thea," I said. 

"Thea? Oh, goodness. That brings me back. Theodora," they said. "Thea got a little too spunky for me."

Theodora handed me a wrench and I did what they asked me to do. I did what I was told, Pippa. I was polite. 

When we finished, it looked like a cylinder with a clear dome attached. Just that. We dropped it onto the transport to somewhere, another part of the station. 

"Follow me," Theodora said. And I did. 

###

I made it out of the advertisements. I'm out in an asteroid belt. It's hell to navigate through, but I don't know where else to go. Lots of manmade debris. 

It's not nice out here. 

###

We walked to another section of the factory. Well, I walked. An observatory. Giant window. Out into nothing beyond the dying star. Why would you build an observatory in a factory?

And Thea. White hair with a few strands of grey still lingering, loose around their shoulders. Glasses. Deepset wrinkles from a life well lived. 

The metal canister lay open on a table. 

“I have a present for you, Gabrielle,” they said, voice hoarse. And Theodora held out a fresh papaya. 

I don’t know how they got one. We’re so far from anywhere that grows them, and stasis boxes get astronomically expensive if they’re good enough to keep something this fresh. 

I didn’t question it. Thea had it already cut in half, and we both bit straight into it, juice trailing in rivulets down our arms and off our chins, a sweet, perfect taste. 

I cried, a little. Thea took my hand in theirs, bony and frail, and squeezed. 

“Are you thinking about your wife, Gabrielle?” they asked. 

“I am,” I said, my voice cracking. “She shared a papaya with me like this once.”

You remember, Philippa. It was so good, heavens above. 

We finished our perfect fruit, and Theodora took all the seeds from me, pouring them into a paper bag and handing them to me. I accepted it with a thank you and sticky hands. Nothing could be stranger than what already happened. 

“Thank you, Gabrielle,” Thea said. 

And they crawled into the cylinder, and I understood. They closed the lid on themselves, and I pressed the button at the base of the coffin. 

It launched. 

“Goodbye, Thea,” I said. I watched it drift until I couldn’t see it anymore. 

And I left with my tacky cheeks and bag of papaya seeds. I ran through the station, time feeling much more real, and I threw myself into my shuttle and got the hell out of there. 

Here we are, I suppose. 

Philippa Two stares at me from the dash. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I miss your contributions. I miss your little head nods and your hand resting on my thigh as we chat. I miss it a lot. Now, it feels like all my feelings go straight into Philippa Two. I lock away my sad and my longing and my talking in a tiny ornamental frog. 

God, I miss you, Pippa. I just miss having a life. I miss being able to cry and have someone wrap their arms around me and tell me that they loved me. I miss your heartbeat. I miss your stomach and your calves and the hinge of your jaw. I let myself feel around you, and now I don’t know how to feel. 

That’s fucking stupid. There’s an ad coming up for food again. And I’m going to stop this time. 

—-

_ What’s an isik? _

_ An isik is a hallway that doesn’t really exist. An isik is a clock with fingers that hang limp at six o clock, too tired to move. An isik is time, but a special kind of time. Time that both is and isn’t real. That is an isik.  _


	5. Observations

**Chapter Five: Observations **

Saying that I fly a shuttle is a bit of an exaggeration, sometimes. If it’s clear space, I don’t even have to touch the controls for hours. It just floats on. I’ve started to lose my sense of time, honestly. Five hours and sixteen hours are the same. You sit down and you start driving, and then you stop. That’s it. I wish I could talk to someone real.

We’re getting back into holo-advertisements. I think I just saw an ad for corn.

I started to get into jewelry making, during these long, long waits. It takes patience and time, lots of it. I think I like it, but I don’t know. I might just be desperate for something to do. I’m making you a necklace, Pippa. Looks like a star, or at least that’s what I hope it’ll look like. I think you’ll like the earrings I made myself.

Some of these ads don’t translate well. This one just says “SMILE,” all caps. The image is...it’s something, I guess, but it’s all garbled.

I wonder what it meant to say.

###

Earlier, I said that I’ve lost my sense of time. I was wrong. This is one of the worst drives I’ve ever been on, no question. It’s long and it’s…

Can outer space be grimy? It feels grimy.

It’s all advertisements. Long stretches of flickering holos. Weird stuff, too. Not weird like good. Weird like sketchy. Objectifying. All the things the Federation likes to pretend don’t exist anymore. I don’t even want to describe them.

I just need to get out of here with my boxes upon boxes of novelty scarves.

###

I keep looking through your things. Like I expect there to be more. There never is. Same old sci-fi novels, rough pages, well-thumbed. Some have sticky notes with your gentle, illegible handwriting. Same Medical Academy sweatshirt, your name on the back. A shirt from the psych track you stole from Katrina and never gave back. Some pens. A yellow legal pad, sheets ripped off, a note to remind yourself to register. Where, I don’t know. You wrote out eighteen times one hundred and twenty three point six, longhand.    
  


You and your fondness for writing. 

There's a lot of various tablets. Your main one, some reports, a personal one. Then the one you slipped between the pages of a book. Not a lot of storage, on something that thin. Just text files. Some bookmarks, too, your favorite mug and a pair of sandals. A holo of you graduating Starfleet in your medical whites. 

[ _ A quiet sniffle, the way you sniffle when tears are hovering at the back of your eyes. _ ]

A holo of us, getting married. Me leaning back against your soft shirt, your jacket draped around the back of your chair. You kissing me, holding my hands tight. The broken glass, wrapped in paper, still at our feet. 

Shiny new rings. 

###

I was thinking about the times you left. For work conferences, or whatever else. You'd send me these long messages, audio and transcript, and a bunch of photos of where you were. I haven't gotten up the nerve to listen to your voice again. 

" _ Hey there, dearheart. _ "

You called me that for a long time. After we watched all those old movies. You said it was romantic. I thought it made you sound old. You teased me about that. 

" _ Hey there, dearheart. We just landed, turbulence was wild on the way in. Almost threw up, if I'm being honest. The rest of the group went out for dinner, but I'm still nauseous. The room's nice, Michael. Big windows, heavy duvet. I wish you were here -- I want you to feel just how all-consuming this mattress is. I'm talking from under layers of blankets now. Made a little tent. _ "

You rambled for a while. Five or ten minutes. I loved hearing your voice. We'd call, but this was like...I don't know. It was better than the calls because there wasn't lag, no crackle. Much better. 

You always sent these when you were away. Always, without fail. Sometimes upwards of twenty minutes. I loved it. Never sent any back, though. Just brief updates if something interesting happened. 

###

I'm reading more of your messages. I have to abstain from listening to the voice recording. That would hurt too much, I think. 

" _ You told me about how hot deserts were, but I never believed you, Michael. _ "

[ _ A chuckle, equally sad and celebratory. _ ]

" _ It's hotter than it has any right to be. Like an oven. Estre -- I can't say it, with my human vocal cords. You know where I am. The planet. It's just baking. Even inside. The locals think that thirty degrees is good enough to be cold, but I'm sweating. Had to have a cold shower. That's nice, at least. A real water shower. I mean, the synthesized water they use for our showers is made poorly and smells weird, but it's still technically water, I guess. This was real water." _

[ _ A long squeal of brakes, the aggressive beep of a shuttle horn. _ ]

###

There are a lot of shitty drivers out here. Too many. 

There's more ads out here. There's one up here that looks like the SMILE one, but it didn't even translate. Just a jumble of non-Federation script. 

I tried to get it to go through the translator, but nothing came out.

All the other advertisements out here seem equally ancient and new. Like they’ve been there since the beginning of time, and will be here till the end, but also like…like they’re on a circular system. One ad leaves and another takes its place, over and over. An ouroboros of restaurants and unnecessary devices.

I haven’t stopped in a while. I don’t think I’ll stop until I’m out of this stretch.

###

I kept digging through your things. I cracked your cipher, Pippa. You set dearheart as your key. 

There were logs. Mission logs, I think. The start to end date and whether or not it was successful. Mostly successful. You were good at whatever you were doing.

A quick note, on a few of them, but I can’t figure out what they meant. I found one thing, though. Section 31. 

Starfleet black ops. What the hell were you doing with Section 31, Pippa? 

I guess this is why we never synced our work calendars.

###

I’m rereading our messages. Well, your messages.

“ _ Morning, Miss Michael. I just got back from the first day of the conference. The default Starfleet residence is very...well, we’ve been to a lot. You know. All crisp and clean. Grey. Default. Tomorrow is only half a day, so I’ve got the afternoon to wander about. Or I would, if it wasn't so bitterly cold in Saskatoon. It's biting, big gusts of snow across the flat plains. I can see a library across the street. I might make the trek out there, if I feel up to it. Love you, Michael. Keep Keyla in line for me." _

The Starfleet residence in Saskatoon isn’t across from a library. There isn’t a library even sort of nearby. I thought maybe you were staying at another hotel, but you specifically said it was Starfleet. 

You never were one to keep things from me, Pippa. 

###

Another advertisement like the SMILE one. English letters this time. IAN TILLY. A glitchy photo of a face in the bottom right corner. 

This one I can look up, I suppose. I've gotten good at looking through archives. Spent hours poring through building permits and municipal records for libraries and hotels. There's not a lot to do on these roads. 

The translator doesn't work on some of these. Maybe I should start picking up Andorian. 

###

I went through more archives. Vacation posts about Estrea -- Estreya -- ? 

I can't say it either. Whatever it is. The law mandates hotels be kept at twenty-two degrees Celsius or lower in lobbies so all of us squishy, warm-blooded species would be all right. So it wasn’t anywhere near thirty degrees. That’s a tiny lie, but it points to too many more.

You didn’t lie to me, you said. You said lying hurt and you tried not to do it. That when you were young you lied compulsively, but you stopped. I thought I knew when you weren’t truthful.

I…

Did I really not know you? 

I’d like to think that this was strictly duty. Some Starfleet higher-up said you had to keep it secret. It better be that, Philippa. We’re going to have a long conversation, once I find you.

###

Another name. SALLA. No last name, but maybe I can cross-reference with IAN TILLY. Maybe they’re just like you, Pippa. Looking for their dead relatives the only way they know how.

All right. I’ll look these up.

Is it too hopeful to think they might be clues?

###

Looked up SALLA and IAN TILLY. Their names were together in a list, ones I recognized from the other ads. Dead people. Their bodies were found half-powdered, with purple wounds. Faces in pain. Died mysteriously of an unknown compound hidden in their stomach, but by the time samples are sent to the lab, its radioactivity and the acids from the stomach turn it to nothing more than carbon residue. He’s gotten better over the years. More dust, less person.

His nickname is ‘the duster’. What an innocuous name, right? He’s a murderer. But I guess that’s just how it is sometimes. People swear that he has eyes of metal. Someone said his insides are hollow and he packs them with meat so he can move, but I don’t know about that. He’s been around for nearly sixty years definitely, a few hundred if you can make a logical leap or two. There are warnings about him. To keep away from the traveller with the silver eyes at rest stops.

I’ve passed more and more displays. Too many. Maybe I’m more aware of them now that I know they’re lives taken.

They’re a reminder. The mirror man is showing his power, how good he is at murder. What a kill streak he’s got. That my name will someday be up there.

The real question is if he’ll put me down as Gabrielle Carroll or Michael Burnham. Or Michael Burnham-Georgiou.

That would be nice.

###

There’s one more in the distance. Looks like too many words to be a name, but I suppose that’s an Earth-centric way of thinking about things. 

It’s flickering worse than the others, I can’t make it out. Must be a cheap projector.

Oh…

[ _ A noise that comes from the back of the throat. Halfway between a whimper, a cry, and a groan. _ ]

You know what that says, Philippa Two? Your little glass frog brain can’t read.

It says…

[ _ A cough, but not like a sick cough, a disbelieving cough. A cough to hold back worse noises. _ ]

Fuck, Pippa.

It says “DEARHEART. GO HOME. STAY SAFE.”

You want me to go home, Pippa? Did you make these billboards? Did you want to warn me?

I can’t go home. I’ll be carted off to prison immediately. And where is safe, exactly? 

Where is safe for the woman that started a war? Where is safe for Michael Burnham?

Nowhere. 

I’m going to find you, Pippa. You know that. Do you think you can stop me?

Objects in motion tend to stay in motion. 

Wait…

Holy shit, there’s someone out there. Someone in a beat-up old EV suit. Where’s their ship...they look like they’re free floating. What are they doing out there? 

Is it...is it him?

Is it you?

Logically, I know I should leave, but I can’t. What if someone needs my help?

I can see in their helmet…

That’s a kid, oh my god. A teenager. 

[ _ Computer beeps that overlap, like typing too quickly. _ ]

Am I broadcasting? Are you okay?

\---

_ What’s an isik? _

_ An isik is the fault in a projector advertising dingy restaurants, the crackle on long distance calls, the ink smudges from writing too fast. It’s the cough in the recording of your love, the rips in the pages of favourite books. That’s an isik. _

  
  
  



	6. Tilly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm abandoning this fic for the time being. Sorry to the two people reading it -- I'll try and come back to it next year.

**Chapter 6: Tilly**

Tilly tucked in for a nap a few hours ago. She’s passed out on the futon in the back, snoring. I’m tired, too. Really tired. My dark circles have crept all the way around my eyes. But I have to keep going, if we’re going to get there on time.

I found a direction, Pippa.

###

There was no way I could leave a teenager free-floating in an ancient EV, out in the gross parts of space. I got her in through the airlock, and when I opened the door for her, she fell right into me. Looked like she was a mild breeze away from just collapsing. I put her down on the bed and hooked her up to a saline solution and an oxygen mask. Made sure her electrolytes were balanced and all that. 

She woke up, eventually. 

“You’re not here to abduct me, are you?” she mumbled, twisting red curls around her fingers.

“No, I’m not. What the hell were you doing out there, uh…” I waited for her to fill in her name.

“Sylvia Tilly. No, scratch that, just Tilly,” she said.

That name. Like the name on the billboard. Tilly. 

“Tilly. You’re lucky it was me that found you,” I said, and I meant it. These were not polite roads for a kid.

“Who are you? That’s a very philosophical question, I just mean, what’s your name,” she said, already trying to get up.

“Gabrielle,” I said. “Lie down. You have to save energy.”

She muttered something, but she stayed lying down. Took off the oxygen mask, though.

“You know something about him, huh?” she asked. 

“I have more questions than answers,” I offered.

“So you have a few answers, then?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. She was right, I think I did have a few answers.

“I know he wants me dead,” I said. “I know he’s dangerous. I know a kid your age shouldn’t be looking for someone so dangerous.”

This was the first time I noticed her shirt. It was made of that reflective material on survival blankets, I think, and it reflected light even brighter than before, it felt like.

“Yeah. I shouldn’t be,” she said. “But I am.”

“Your name’s Tilly,” I said. “Like the name on the billboard.”

“Mm,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about it. Do you wanna hear a story?” she asked, adjusting herself on the couch. 

“Yes,” I said. 

###

We were nearly to my deposit point, and she’d been talking the whole way. I put her to work driving so I could keep bending little loops of wire. She talked about her grandmother and her mother. Her mother kind of sounded like Sarek, and I told her so.

“Oh, man. It sucks, doesn’t it? Having someone like that raise you. Fucks you up real bad,” she said.

I raised my pliers in solidarity. “It really does.”

She went silent, for a moment. I saw something come over her. Something sad. She shook it off, though. “My dad was really nice. He took me on lots of trips. And we started to see things. Weird things. A creepy man with silver eyes, messed-up teeth. The  _ grossest  _ fingernails. There’s something bad leaking through this universe, Gabrielle. Something really bad.”

“Yeah,” I said. There was a lot of bad in this universe. Too much.

“I wish I could just forget it,” she said. “I wish I could just go home and forget all about this. No, scratch that. I wish I could go back in time and stop it from ever happening.”

“Me too,” I said, bending a treble clef out of copper.

God, I wish I could go back.

###

Tilly tucked herself under the couch when I went to deposit the scarves. Smart of her. I didn’t want any questions. The delivery went to a large boutique. They offered me samples. I took them for Tilly. And I bought a scarf for you, Pippa. It’s got a red dart frog on the side. Looks like Philippa Two.

Tilly crawled out from the dusty cavern under the bed and smiled, picking up my Alice in Wonderland. She flipped it open.

“Wow, you brought a paper book!” she exclaimed, tracing her fingers down the pages and plunking herself down on the stool next to the pilot’s seat. 

“My mom got it for me,” I said. 

“It says it’s to Michael,” she said, looking inquisitively at the flyleaf.

I tried not to tense. “It was secondhand,” I explained, hoping she’d believe me. She didn’t say any more to me about it, anyway.

“I...uh, Gabrielle, I have a question. I need a ride somewhere. Can you take me?” she asked, placing Alice on the dash, on top of the other copy of Alice you got me.

“Sure. Probably, at least,” I said.

“I have to get to Tau Ceti IV,” she said.

“Tau Ceti IV? That’s halfway across the quadrant, not to mention the security — I have a job, Tilly,” I said, probably too sharply.

“Look, Gabrielle, I’m sorry, I just really...I’m just —”

She sniffled and started crying. I watched for a moment until I managed to get my arms to move properly. Gave her a proper big Philippa hug. Got her to calm down a little.

“I’m really sorry, Tilly. I can’t be late for the next shipment. I can get you part of the way there, at least,” I said.

###

Tau Ceti IV is nice. Pleasant atmosphere. Warm and sunny. We landed down on a mostly deserted highway. Tilly drove, mostly, and I sat in the back. Didn’t want to draw attention.

She pulled into the parking lot of a roadside attraction. Some giant statue of a lizard-type creature. We were across from a stand selling fruit, but it seemed to be closed. Too bad, I’d kill for some fresh fruit. You can only last on carbs for so long. I tucked us into a corner of the parking lot.

“They’ll be here at six,” she said.

“All right. Are you hungry? Can I get you anything from inside?” I offered. She thought about it for a moment.

“Some nachos would be nice, if you see them,” she said. She picked up the book again and flipped to the first page.

There was a faded poster in the window for an action movie that premiered two years ago. 

The person working at the counter seemed tired and bored. Made my nachos with nothing but a tired smile and a grunt. We made eye contact. I bought an orange soda for Tilly. I figured she’d like it.

When I got back into the shuttle, Tilly was staring at the inscription of both Alices. 

“Hey, uh, they had nachos,” I said, trying not to panic.

“These both say Michael,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, thinking of whether or not it would be possible to pass it off as a coincidence.

“Is your name Michael?” she asked. “Are you  _ Michael Burnham _ ?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “That’s me. I’ll call you a shuttle home, if you want.”

I thought about how much I was going to miss her. I didn’t want to go back to just Philippa Two’s cold, dead stare. I really didn’t. So I closed my eyes and waited for her to storm out.

“You knew Captain Georgiou?” she said, in this quiet, sad voice, tracing her fingers over Philippa’s name on the flyleaf.

I sighed, sitting down on the stool beside her and holding out the plate of nachos and the soda as a peace offering. 

“I did,” I said.

“Captain Georgiou was my hero. I had a picture of her on my wall for years. She was always so open about...well, everything. I don’t know. That sounds weird. I feel weird about telling you about the picture thing,” she said, with a nervous laugh. 

I laughed, a little. To ease up the tension in the room. “Everyone idolizes someone, I suppose. You’re really glossing over the whole ‘being in a shuttle with Starfleet’s only mutineer who kind of started a war that killed your hero’, Tilly,” I said.

“I never believed that,” she blurted. “I dunno, I just didn’t think you would have done that. During your trial, you seemed really distraught and...like you couldn’t fend for yourself. Definitely not a warmonger.”

I was taken aback by that, Pippa. I had sort of forgotten that my trial was broadcast. I don’t remember it. 

“You’re right. It was an accident,” I said. “I didn’t want to start a war.”

There was this heavy silence between us, like...I don’t know. I’m out of similes. Tilly eventually interrupted with “So, what was she like? Captain Georgiou, I mean.”

I told her how amazing you were. How proud and encouraging you were. How good you were as a mentor. She listened intently. 

“You were in love with her,” Tilly said, with finality. Like she knew. I guess she did.

“I was,” I said. “We were married.”

“Woah. Really? That sounds...nice,” she mumbled. “I...uh. I may have thought she was really pretty.”

I let out a little  _ aww _ . Like if I’d seen a puppy or something. I showed her the holo of us getting married. She looked at my ring. 

It was really nice, Pippa. 

Should we have kids?

No, that’s silly. Our job is too dangerous.

Well. My job was. Maybe I can convince you to take an extended leave after I find you.

Maybe.

###

Six came and went, and then seven, and Tilly got all agitated, worried.

“They’re never late,” she said. “They’ll break the laws of thermodynamics if they have to.”

“Why don’t we go in and get dinner? We can ask the people inside,” I suggested.

Tilly asked everyone we ran into about a beige security shuttle. No one had seen anything, I guess. So we sat down and ordered our food, and Tilly poked at the salt shaker --

In a melancholy way? Melancholically? 

I don’t know. She poked at the salt shaker hopelessly. We waited to get our food, and Tilly kept poking sadly. As the server deposited our food and went to leave, I leant out and asked him if he’d seen a beige security shuttle.

He froze, tensing up, and I could see that hope to just  _ forget  _ in his eyes. I felt it. I knew it.

“You have?” Tilly said, a little too loudly. “Where? Is it okay? What happened?”

I  _ shush _ ed her, as gently as I could.

“Kid,” I said, “you have to tell me. This is my daughter. I’m looking for my wife, okay? She went missing four months ago, and this is the only idea I have of where she went. Please. I need to find her --” I glanced at his name tag. “Jeremy. I need to. She’s half my world. Tell me. For me and Thea’s sake,  _ please _ .”

He looked tired, still, but just a little inspired.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think it was a security cruiser,” he said, ripping a page out of his order notebook and sliding it to us folded.

“You named me  _ Thea _ ?” Tilly whisper-shouted as I unfolded the paper. It was a crude drawing of the rest stop, with an area in the rocks behind the lizard statue circled.

“I was put on the spot! Next time you get to make up our maudlin backstory, Tilly,” I said.

We wolfed down that dinner like we hadn’t eaten in months. 

I left a generous tip. We, as a society, don’t even tip anymore, but the kid deserved a reward.

###

The rocks were…

Well, the rocks were rocky. We had a treacherous climb up to the very tip of the mini-mountain range, and then we were able to pick up the beige-on-beige of the shuttle. It was crashed.

When we got to the wreckage, the seats were covered in a faint layer of indigo dust.

Tilly leant against the rocks and started crying. Started  _ sobbing _ . Full body shuddering, tearing at her hair, smashing herself into the side of the stone. I wrapped her in a hug for her own safety, pinning her arms to her sides.

She took big, deep gulps of air until she calmed down, and then she started talking.

Her and her father had stopped a few light-years past Tau Ceti Alpha to eat lunch. And they’d seen him, seen the mirror man. They had stepped in to stop another murder.

Tilly’s dad didn’t make it out of that rest stop.

Tilly’s mom didn’t believe her. She got stuck at different boarding schools, bounced between therapists, most of whom were helpful to some degree but didn’t believe her either. 

One of them did, though, an old one who split their time between galactic security and sitting in a chair opposite troubled kids. They’d seen the mirror man, they knew him well. And in the few visits they had, they’d made a map of everywhere he’d been. It was a little group of two, trying to figure out the secret of this serial killer.

Eventually, j’Osja had to leave, permanently. They warned Tilly not to go looking for him, to stay safe.

Tilly didn’t listen, of course. 

A year or so into her galaxy-wide trek, j’Osja had sent her an encrypted message. This place on Tau Ceti IV, this time. They had new information on him, they said. They’d found his secret. 

We picked through the rubble together, but we found nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“They were stationed on T’Rahn VII,” Tilly said, through a tear-stiff throat. “Maybe they left stuff for me, or maybe there are files or something.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, Tilly, I broke out of a Starfleet prison. Every security officer is looking for me. I can’t take you there. And I can’t encourage you to possibly get arrested by breaking into a security station,” I said.

“You could just drop me off at a nearby stop. I’ll make my way over,” she said.

“I can’t just leave you alone! How old are you, anyway?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know the answer.

“I’m seventeen,” Tilly muttered. 

“You’re a  _ child _ , Tilly. I get to look for the mirror man because I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. You should be learning about cell division and reading Shakespeare in class right now,” I said.

###

As we travelled through the quadrant in search of the T’Rahn system, we saw a supernova.

It’s still moving in my mind, the plumes of colour dragging across the black sky.

###

After a while, I asked Tilly about her shirt. I didn’t want to be rude, or anything, but I was intrigued. For someone concerned about being inconspicuous, it seemed a little extravagant.

“Oh, this thing? The mirror man hates light. That’s why his pupils are so small all the time. I figured this might blind him a little,” she explained. “I’m paranoid that I’ll see him. So I don’t take it off.”

“Huh,” I said. “I’m paranoid, too. What’s your poison? I have a sweet combination. Both kinds of PTSD  _ and _ an anxiety disorder,” I said.

“Trauma,” she said. “Is it sad to want to be trauma buddies with you?”

“Yeah, probably. Trauma buds?” I said.

She grinned. “Thanks. Good luck in finding your wife,” she added.

“This feels like a toast opportunity,” I said, lifting my tea. She lifted her soda.

“To healing. And to the trauma buds, established here, 2256,” Tilly said.

We clinked glasses, and I thought about how glad I was to have her, even if it was only to the T’Rahn system.

###

We parked the shuttle in a mostly vacant parking lot a ten-minute walk away from the security station. It was raining, ever so slightly. Completely empty on the streets. Grey skies at ten in the morning. I walked Tilly up to the bend before the station.

“Hey, when you find her, say hi to Captain Georgiou,” Tilly said, adjusting her flannel over her shirt.

I gave her one of my plaid shirts. She grew on me, Philippa.

“I’ll bring her by to meet you,” I said.

“Really? Thanks, Michael, you’re the best,” Tilly squealed, and I could feel how excited she was to meet you radiating from every bone in her body. She gave me a tight squeeze, then she turned away and started walking.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let a seventeen year old break into a security station alone.

“Tilly!” I whisper-shouted, hurrying up to her side. “I can’t let you do something this foolish without an adult to blame.”

“Oh, thank God. I was getting shaky. This is gonna be exhilarating, I think,” she said.

It most certainly was.

\---

_ What’s an isik? _

_ An isik is the coil of a supernova, heat and light fading out into the cosmos. It’s the coil in the hair of an exuberant seventeen year old. It’s the copper, coiled, in a handmade pair of earrings. It’s the coil of metal around a finger to indicate marital status. That’s an isik. _

  
  



End file.
